


ironman42

by Poose



Category: Marvel (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Truckers, Anonymous Sex, Character Study, Facials, Inspired by Photography, M/M, Prostitution, Semi-Public Sex, Tattoos, Truck Stop Hooker Steve Rogers, Truckers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-01
Updated: 2014-09-01
Packaged: 2018-02-15 14:09:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2231904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Poose/pseuds/Poose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tony is a long-haul trucker, Steve works the back lot. Sex happens. (I'm very sophisticated, I'll have you know.)</p><p>Completely and entirely inspired by <a href="http://thechrisevansblog.blogspot.com/2009/03/flashback-tony-duran-photoshoot-for.html">this photoshoot</a>, which (coincidentally) is the #1 result when you Google "Truckstop hooker Chris Evans." Thanks, Tony Duran, for giving me everything I never knew I wanted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	ironman42

**Author's Note:**

  * For [trill_gutterbug](https://archiveofourown.org/users/trill_gutterbug/gifts).



> Super quick beta by my lovely [wreathed.](http://archiveofourown.org/users/wreathed/pseuds/wreathed)

His engine had been thirsty since Grand Junction but Tony had ignored it until Back in Black had played through, whole album, for a second time. As the title track ends he’s dimly aware that it would have been better to stop an hour ago, but in his haste to make the border he’d ignored the danger of overheating. In the morning, when he'd delivered the payload and was headed back east, then he could give the town more than a passing wave.

_Vegas._

Even the word twinkled.

Tony was a creature of habit, especially when it came to this run. He made it twice a month (Pepper saw to that) and so twice a month he’d treat himself to all the comforts of modern civilization on the way home. No expense spared: king room at The D, Jack Daniels -- as much as he wanted, with sugary Coke chasers. The 18 ounce porterhouse at Binyon’s for dinner, charred outside and bloody within, exactly how he liked it. Quarters for slots, chips for blackjack and roulette.

Success at the tables, long hours at the casino bar -- those had been known to end in hookups, but Tony much preferred to do things the classy way and order a guy off the internet. Let the street hustlers keep their shiny leaflets. He could afford to be choosy, making forty cents per mile, thank you very much. Long haul had its advantages. A couple of clicks and he’d turn up at your hotel room. Guaranteed delivery in 90 minutes or less. Fresh and hot like a pizza. It was fantastic.

Sobriety, on the other hand, was a useless sack of shit, but at least it was something he only had to enforce, or care about, part time. Long days on the road deserved rewards beyond the monetary, and that, along with a relentless rhythm section - god _damn_ but Rudd could keep time - anchored his foot to the pedal. Get through the run, empty the cargo, and on the way back: showtime, Sin City, US-fucking-A. Tony could almost taste the whiskey.

First though, he has to make it to the distribution hub in Riverside. So far he’s ahead of schedule, having taken only the minimally required break at the Utah state line. Mormon porn was one thing, actual legit Mormons and their creepy repressive booze laws another, and he’d been gunning it hard up till now. It was with regret that he made for the next exit. Ahead, the long flat of I-15 Southbound stretched into the horizon and - if you squinted - a man could almost make out the lights of Vegas, glinting with all that promise.

Tony downshifts onto the exit ramp. His engine grinds to a halt as he parks at what has to be the world’s most shittastic truck stop. A thin coat of brown grit obscures the words on the painted sign. _Gas & Fuel_ it reads, in old-fashioned script. “What the hell?” he says, because wow, what a place. Should have held out for Moapa. Still, it’s but a matter of moments to ease his rig into the back lot, bypassing the tanks since he’s fine on fuel. Tony hops down from the cab, pops his back, stretches, spits in the dust.

Two cars are parked in front of the shop, a faded blue 80s Tercel and a white Chevrolet. The Chevy’s rear window is densely packed with sun-faded Beanie Babies. Its bumper sports a sticker with peeling edges, which, he sees as he approaches, implores the reader in capital letters to _REPENT!_ And beneath it, smaller, though no less fervent capitals, remind him that _the end is nigh_.

A lingering wail of Young’s lead guitar reverberates in his ears as he adjusts to the sounds of the here and now. Tony is the only customer in a shop that appears to have been last stocked prior to 9/11. It’s pretty silent, save for the buzz of the overhead lights, which turn all the cheerily colored merchandise a radioactive shade of blue. From the wall-mounted radio floats the overenthusiastic drivel of a late night Clear Channel DJ, the kind whose patter has to be generic enough to encompass the five thousand square miles of the southwest region.

He makes his way to the back, past the lone payphone. There’s a shower, though its door bears a hand-lettered ‘closed for repairs’ sign. From the look of it, it’s been that way for at least a decade. There is a small, obligatory game room with the saddest assortment of slots Tony has ever seen. All told, it’s hardly the kind of place anyone would hang around unless a natural disaster had trapped them there. A boxy television is broadcasting Keno numbers in an endless loop. Movement in the corner of his eye alerts him to the fact that he’s not alone, and before he gets sucked in to conversation he hightails it into and out of the toilet in record time and grabs supplies for the job ahead. Time is of the essence.

Mountain Dew and Red Bull have their merits: chiefly, caffeine. He studies them for a second, cool air from the fridge on his face, and decides on both, plus a couple of 5 Hour energy shots. Apparently, prices have also stayed the same since 2001, because he is able to throw a cheese danish, a pack of Blackjack, a box of Winston lights, and a red-tinged piece of what he assumes to be beef jerky onto the counter as well. He pays from the roll of bills that he keeps in his front pocket.

“Twelve dollars and seventy six cents,” the cashier says, and takes his money. “You have a penny? Oh, I have one.” She hands him a three dollars and a quarter in change. The quarter he drops into the missing kids bucket before he gathers all his shit up in his hands. 

“I can give you a bag,” the woman says, speaking slowly and carefully. “I got it,” he tells her, “but thanks.” The doorbell chimes as he shoulders open the door, makes a mental note of his height -- 5’9” in the engineer boots, he’ll fucking _take_ it -- in case he decides on a career change from truck driver to petty criminal, and with his arms aching makes his way back over to his rig.

He’s just put the shit down on the step and gone to pull the drum of long-drain synthetic from the storage compartment, debating if he should eat the danish now, when his hands are clean, or later, when he hears footsteps behind him. A flat second later finds him in a defensive posture, fists clenched by his sides. All it takes is a single run in with a trigger-happy hopped-up one percenter. He keeps a switchblade and pepper spray in the cab, same for the loaded nine millimeter, which - oh, mother _fucker_ \- is currently warming up the passenger seat.

The culprit turns out to be a kid, only a kid. He steps out of the shadows into a halogen circle cast by the floodlights. Pure desert trash, by the look of him: faded jeans, a light colored t-shirt, peach or pink, that sure as hell didn’t come distressed from the store. Sleeves fraying where they’ve been cut off. Inked in a couple places, and a it’s better class of work than you’d expect from prison, free from blowout, so he hasn’t spent a stretch inside. Tony can’t see his face from below the visor of his hat, but from this distance he looks too young to be truly dangerous. Well, he’s been mistaken about that before.

“Didn’t mean to startle you,” the kid says, and his voice is surprisingly deep. Scratchy, too, like he’s unaccustomed to using it much. “Think this is yours.” He holds out his hand. Tony flinches, instinct shouting that he could be carrying, but the other man opens his palm to reveal one of his 5 Hours.

“Oh,” Tony says, since he must have dropped it on the walk over, “Oh, yeah, thanks.” He takes the tiny bottle, opens it and chugs it in one, then tosses it on the dusty ground next to his foot. His mouth tastes of copper when he’s finished.

“She broke down?” the man asks, flexing his jaw in the direction of the engine. Tony chooses to ignore him.  

“Thanks,” he says, once more. Every minute he spends here keeps him away from his endgame. Vegas, he reminds himself. Make the run, do the drop, and then it’s slots, steak, and tail until late check-out. Tony turns on his heel, a clear indication that he’s finished talking, and retrieves a funnel, a stool, and a couple of work cloths from the cab. He pops the hood, gets up and in without too much trouble. The kid’s still there, but Tony figures he’s got the vantage point now if he tries anything funny so he goes about his business. He hums “Enter Sandman,” with appropriate guitar solo noises, as he adds a good quart and a half to the engine. While he’s at it, he goes ahead and checks the coolant. All told, it’s probably a ten minute job, and he’ll be back on the road in no time.

“You need help?” Tony looks down over his bare shoulder at the kid, who comes in closer. For the first time, the light falls right onto his face, and… shit, he’s a looker. Pretty face, a mouth made for sin. From where he’s standing, his tanned skin looks pale in the shadows. Strong shoulders, arms, abs. Abs for fucking _days_. Tony permits himself exactly one head to toe scan of this guy’s body, enough to scope without getting punched in the jaw. Motorcycle boots, faded jeans, muscular thighs that promise an equally sculpted ass. The whole goddamn package. Tomorrow's hooker, he decides, as he blinks and turns away, will have to be built like a brick shithouse. And blond. Tomorrow, he’ll lay him out on the hotel bed. When he’s paid for it up front then, and only then, he can look his fill.

“Want me to hold that?” The kid is persistent, he’ll give him that. He glances over to see him holding out his hand for the funnel. Oh, what the hell. Company can be all right if he can keep to his time. And you know, the road can get lonely, and he’s spent his life on the road, without mooring or anchor. He passes it over. “Thanks,” he says, and means it.

“No problem,” the guy says, allowing Tony to brace himself on that hard shoulder as he gets down. His fingers itch to close around the muscle and squeeze, stroke down see if that skin is as smooth as it looks. But he’s so close to endgame, and why get knocked on your ass in the Mohave because of misread signals? Okay, so maybe he’s sort of up in Tony’s space, but only to help him down, like a decent person. Those still exist. Once back on terra firma, Tony knows that straight guys have to counter shit like this almost immediately. A punch to the shoulder screams _NO HOMO!_ almost as loud as the cashier’s bumper sticker had warned of hellfire. So yeah, Tony fully expects this kid to back away fast instead of placing one hand on his waist and pulling -- pulling? -- him closer. Oh shit. _Shit._

“Where you headed?” the other man asks, breath skirting hot over Tony’s neck and...look, it’s the desert at night? Dead of night, average temps are down in the 40s, 50s. Whatever. That’s why his skin prickles with goosebumps, all right? 

“You want some company?”

An engine when it’s not overheating can run upwards of three hundred degrees, hot enough to burn through a metal exterior and a pair of waxed Levi’s. Tony knows this because desert trash pretty boy here has him crowded all up against the front fender and his ass nearly smokes with the singe of it.

“On a schedule,” he says, voice gruff, and fuck, he has to look away -- ice machine, propane tanks, payphone, something, anything. See, Tony’s learned his lesson about men. Busy stops have a woman, or two or three, prowling the back lot. It’s quick and relatively painless, and he’s been known to go that route when things get desperate enough. For one, you could always overpower a woman, if it came to that, especially if you kept a weapon in your sightline while you fucked her. A man, though, full-grown? Strong, tall, like this pretty boy in the parking lot? A man might lure you in with the promise of a tight ass or a wet mouth, either to be paid for in a small sheaf of well-worn twenties, but you had to keep it seriously under-fucking-cover. Stealth ops shit, out here on the road.  

Truckers looked out for their own, sure enough. If you popped a tire on I-40 westbound, someone on the CB would have your back. A roadblock, a sheriff’s car hidden by the on-ramp, bear in the bushes, a radar gun pointed right at your rig? They’d tell you. And since good neighbors were pretty important for Tony’s livelihood, he chose not to broadcast his inclinations. Those could be satisfied fine, with his regulars in Nevada, or the Fleshjack he kept in the cab. The only problem with that was washing it. You got some funny looks at a rest stop bathroom trying to use the public sinks, with their fucking environmentalist bullshit water conserving faucets: stop, start, trickle. That acrid pink hand soap, hard to clean out the creases thoroughly with it.

Came in handy, though, on long stretches. Sabbath on the stereo, fuck, he could drive one-handed. And he can rub one out with his goddamn eyes open, another trick of the road. The shit your mother told you was real. Strange men are dangerous, which is why he can compartmentalize, and why he doesn’t go picking up tricks in the lot.

These concerns are eroding fast with that thigh rammed hard against his crotch. His blood perks up despite himself. Tony swears he can see heat radiating off bared shoulders, shimmering in the dark desert air, itself sharp with the tang of motor oil and overheated engine.

The other man crowds close, and Tony allows it. For a brief intoxicating second, almost (almost!) as good as cocaine, he savors the the warmth of his leg, the firm muscle beneath it. His fingers tighten on Tony’s waist and he rocks them there, trapping Tony between the fender, a little cooler now, but not much, and that wonderful fucking thigh. Unrelenting, the way he moves. Shameful, how it makes Tony’s head buzz.

“You interested,” the man asks, a question without the intonation.

Well, now would be the time to shove him away. If he’s gonna do it...call him a faggot, spit in the dust. Reclaim his dignity and finish the run, finish the goddamn job. Rev the engine and gun it without once looking over his shoulder. Make up the time. Earn his bank. And then do the same shit all over again: Riverside, Spokane, Rapid City, Provo. Tony has yet to remove his hand from touching the kid’s upper arm. It leaves a smear of grease behind as he brushes his thumb, ever so lightly, across the muscle. The kid shivers. Tony can’t help but grin.  

“Depends on what’s on offer,” he hears himself say. The words are distant, like he’s hearing them piped in from a speaker mounted in the corner of a room.

The man noses against Tony’s neck and it’s nearly a kiss. Not quite. “It’s all on the table,” he practically fucking purrs, and then, Jesus, his hand is making its way down from Tony’s waist to the hem of his shirt, an inquisitive finger finding his High Life belt buckle. They both look down, their eyes coming to rest on that finger as it finds the swelling line of Tony’s hard-on. It distends the fabric on one side of his zipper, to the left, the direction that he curves.

“You want a handjob,” the man is saying, sliding Tony’s belt from the buckle with fingers that have probably done this a thousand times before, and it’s one of the reasons he likes to fuck hookers, because the quality of the experience is often of the highest standard, but -- and, oh, well hey, here’s the part where Tony is a sick fuck who can’t actually sustain an adult relationship -- he _loves_ the thought that he’s just another john. It gets his rocks off so hard. Not only that he’s nothing special, but happens to be one of many on a long line of fucks for money. Why the hell does that get to him, low in his gut, to think that he could put his cock up this stranger and it doesn’t have to mean anything? That he isn’t unique or special or any of that shit, only money to be earned and a load to take. Yeah, that’s fucked.

“Fifteen bucks,” he says, working Tony with his hand before he’s even handed over a dime. “I’ll blow you for twenty but you have to wear a condom.”

He spits in his palm and the noise reverberates, loud and obscene in the darkness. The rest of the menu he rattles off like a seasoned diner waitress. “Thirty if you want to go without, forty if you expect me to swallow.”

Well, say what you want about his sales technique, but he’s cheap compared to Vegas. A bargain, with how pretty that face is, how filthy it’ll look streaked with his come. Two hours of lead time lost to fix his engine? He’ll call in to dispatch and tell them that’s what happened, that it took a while. He can fuck this kid and make the run on time. Course he can, he’s a warrior. He’s a fucking legend.

Legend or no, he’s immediately on edge from a few teasing touches. “Fucking hell,” Tony nearly shouts, as the man twists a fist around him. His palm is a little dry, even with the saliva. He gives Tony a moment to think on these options, whether he’ll have the house special or the usual, thanks, darling, and squeezes his shaft to help the process along. Tony’s brain short circuits: he wants that ass on his cock like _yesterday_.

He squeezes his hand around that hard arm. “How much to fuck you?”  

The man steps back, with the wary gaze of a professional. “Where?” he asks.

Tony rolls his eyes. “In the _ass_ , sweetheart, where the fuck do you think?”

“No, I…” he trails off, looks up at the cab, “can we go in there?”

“As opposed to what, a motel?” Tony flicks a glance  over the other man’s body, behind him to his truck. “I have cargo, I don’t have time for that shit. How much?”

“Eighty,” he says, stepping back. Jaw tense like he’s decided on something final and deeply serious. He adjusts his hat one more time. “Eighty and we go into the sleeper. Not the cab. You wear a condom, and you pay me first.”

“Half now,” Tony says, pulling the wad of bills out of his pocket, enough to taunt a little, “and the rest when I finish.” He peels off a twenty and two tens and hands them over.

“Go on,” he says. “I’ll meet you in a second.” The kid nods and takes himself and his perfect ass inside. 

Tony’s walk over to the cab is stiff-legged, arm held out wide to mask the evidence of his arousal. The place is deserted, at least. It gives the impression of being frozen in time, a relic from another age, built during the gas crisis and barely modernized since then. As he looks around, Tony sees only missed opportunities and a place that boom culture passed by. Yet despite the lack of custom, it survives. A hardy desert plant in a harsh landscape. Less than five inches of rain per calendar year. Barely enough to live on. But that’s how the desert treats things men build, indifferent to their creation, and equally uninterested in their demise.

He shakes out and lights the second to last cigarette in his old pack as the phone rings twice.

“TMC Dispatch, who’s on the line?” Poor thing sounds like she’s bored to tears. Late shift’s a lonely time, on the road or in a cube.

“Hey Pep,” Tony pulls on his smoke, “Ironman42 reporting for duty.”

There’s an audible lift to her voice, an affection when she says his name. “Tony, hi! How’s the run? I have you,” he hears the clack of keys, “300 miles out of the drop point?”

The lie comes easy, being merely an extension of the circumstances to fit his truth.

“True enough, babe, but I’m running hot. Right outside Moapa. Gonna let her cool down for a spell if that’s all right?”

More clatter. “I’m making a note of it. About how long?”

That ass could be, should be, fucked for _years_ without pause, but he’s only got an hour.

“Shouldn’t be more than an hour, once the coolant can be topped up. I’ll get a cup of coffee and hang out, read the paper.” Like he’d give the CB an actual hour of his time. How about no.

“You hardly stopped earlier,” she counters, “take a nap if you can.”

“Roger that, Pep,” he says, “Long day tomorrow.”

“Call when you get in,” she says.

“Off at six?” She works the overnights on weekdays only. They’re pretty good about giving her weekends off, for the kids.

“Indeed I am. It’s Peter’s birthday on Sunday.”

“How old?”

“Six,” she says, “We ordered him a Batman cake.”

Tony finishes his cigarette and winds up the call. “Save a piece for me, all right? Talk soon, sugar.”

“10-4,” Pep says, and cuts out.

He scoops up the stuff on the running board and puts it in the cab, then hoists himself into the sleeper, where the other man is standing in the dark, waiting. There’s overhead lights he can run off the generator, but the dimness is working for him, the way the lights from the lot pick up the lines of his face, a good face attached to an even better body. Tony silently gives himself a high five, amazed at his luck, finding a stop with a hot boy instead of a methed out lot lizard with no front teeth.

One the door is shut behind him, the kid crowds Tony against the wall almost immediately.  “Easy,” he says, but is interrupted by crush of a mouth on his own. Bubblegum, he thinks, as the kid’s tongue finds his. Soda. A hint of cigarettes. He opens his mouth into the kiss and the kid moans out loud. Gives a little swoon, sways on his feet. It’s fucking indecent, a sound straight from porn. The noise sounds practiced, rehearsed. Sick fuck that Tony is, it’s the notion of that -- the practice, the dancing, delirious thoughts of _how many men before me_ \-- that does it for him. He’d flagged a little talking to dispatch, but full mast is once again upon him.

His eyes have adjusted to the relative dim of the sleeper, and in the anonymity of darkness he can say and do all sorts of things unfit for polite company. There’s a reason Tony spends 95% of his time alone: him and the truck, him and the CD player, him and the open road. Partners that stay the course. His hand reaches out to touch that bare arm again, if only to feel the heat of his skin. The touch is idle, aimless, in contrast to the deeply inappropriate question that accompanies it.

“You do any business today?”

The question is far too personal to be answered truthfully, but if what he suspects turns out to be true, this kid has turned pro only recently. Out of boredom, for spite. To pay a debt or to escape. The reasons matter much less than the fact that he’s here now, cradled in Tony’s arms, breath rapid like a rabbit caught in a trap. Tony peers at him from beneath the brim of his own cap. “Place like this, I’m thinking you don’t see a lot of activity, am I right?”

He places one palm over Tony’s heart, the other lower down. “It’s been slow,” he says, in measured tones. Wary, because he has to be, and not one minute ago Tony could have had him by the throat. And there’s a thought, though it’s usually a deluxe option. “It’s better a few miles up the road, at the Love's.” Fingers dive into Tony’s jeans and deliver a hard squeeze.

Tony clears his throat. “How many?” he asks.

The man’s brow furrows. The swishing sound of skin against denim can barely be heard over the thudding in Tony’s ears. He drops his hands to cage the man’s narrow waist, and as he goes wide-eyed with surprise, Tony widens his stance and walks him backwards, thighs pressed to thighs. With a bit of stumbling, they reach the shelf with the thin mattress laid on it. On it is a flat sheet, draped over everything, a small blanket and a matching pillow, both of which he bought at the Fort Collins K-Mart back in March. The pillow has already split along one seam.

The other guy seems to want to use his tongue for an answer, and Tony likes the way he kisses; eyes squeezed shut and brow creased, throwing his neck into it as if he’s trying to prove an angry point. A little aggressive right off the bat, so Tony responds in kind and goes savage on his lower lip. A quick bite, and then he scrapes his teeth over it. The shut eyes blink open with shock, and the small squeak of pleasure it elicits sounds authentic as hell, to his ears.

Hot because it's unrehearsed, Tony decides, but he nonetheless pulls away from the kiss to demand his answer. “You don’t wanna tell me?” The man drops his forehead to touch Tony’s. He’s got a good six, five - call it four - inches on him, and the movement rounds his body forward as he drapes one forearm over Tony’s shoulder. A pink tongue flicks out to lick his bottom lip and chase away the sting.

“What I want,” the man says, all gravel and heat, his body filling every cramped quarter of this tiny space, “is to get these off.” Quick hands reach for Tony’s jeans; a few wriggles and they’re shoved down his thighs. Tony lets himself be pushed onto his back, their legs still entangled as if they were standing.

Never one to be outdone, Tony asks, “Planning on taking any of that off?” The man shoots him a reproachful glare, but he grabs the back of his collar and pulls his t-shirt over his head. From the corner of his eye, he can watch the reflection of his muscular back in the mirror which lives in an upper corner of the compartment. A halogen halo colors everything a cold yellow. Tony looks and then looks some more. Skin, so much golden skin. Skifts of hair on forearms and chest muscles. Tattoos, everywhere, five at least, all black. Words and symbols, illegible even at close distance.

He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a condom wrapper. It lands with a snap on Tony’s stomach. “Put that on for me,” he says. Tony glances down at the package. “Wonderful,” he deadpans, “Red’s always been my best color.”  Tony tears the package open with his teeth and unrolls the condom over himself with a hard pinch at the tip. 

Out of a front pocket comes a lube bottle. It’s too dark for Tony to see how full it is, but he figures he can wait to ask. Then the kid shifts on his feet and his jeans drop to the floor, too. More hair, a gathering storm, a bit darker than you’d expect from the lighter stuff on his head. A dim reflection of a sincerely perfect ass winks at him from the mirror.

He steps close and crowds Tony’s space, the bottle in an outstretched hand.“You want to do it?”

“No,” Tony shakes his head. Hell no, he wants to lie still and look. “I have faith. You can do the honors." He rolls onto his forearm and props his head on his hand. The man pops the top on the bottle. Upon further inspection, Tony can see that it looks pretty fresh, and for the life of him, he can’t put his finger on why that depresses him. It does, though.

“You'd rather watch?” the man asks, clearly blind to the fact that Tony has an unimpeded view of both front and backsides, courtesy of a rearview mirror he liberated, all right, bought, from a Flying J in the Texas panhandle.

“I can do that.” He takes himself in hand, condom and all. Might as well give him some encouragement. It’s another chance to look his fill. Heavy breathing floods the tiny space. Other than small slick sounds it is perfectly quiet. Tony cranes his head to better see the mirror, watches one finger disappear and reappear, for a while, and then a second one join the party. All the while, little moans roll across his ears like kisses.

The pleasure reflected on the man’s face is altogether less convincing - it’s mixed with exhaustion, boredom, pain - his own constant companions - and it makes his chest crumple like an empty beer can under the foot if he thinks about it too hard.

Emotions are like sunlight. It’s better not to look at them directly if you don’t want to end up blind. Loneliness he knows, along with perversion, antagonism, and being a foul-mouthed smart ass. Fallbacks, every one, to maintain his bravado and keep solid his facade.

Tony clears his throat and rephrases his question from before, because he really does want an answer. “So you had a slow night?” he asks. He cups his cock against his stomach, fully prepared to be ignored. It’s his money, however, and he’s bought time enough to say what he wants. “I asked you a question,” Tony says, more sternly than before. “You have anyone else up in there today?”

The kid opens one eye and glares at him. It’s cute to see him try and look tough, as if that pretty puppydog face could command any kind of authority.

He answers, though his breath hitches in his chest before he speaks. “I - I told you. It’s been a while.”

“Yeah?” Tony asks, as he circles his balls with his fingers and squeezes them, because, whore or not, this kid is gonna be so tight for him. He can tell by the way his eyebrows pull together in a crinkle that even two fingers are already a stretch.

“Yeah,” the kid says, as he rocks forward and back between the V of Tony’s open legs.

“Poor baby,” Tony says, though the phrase drips with condescension. “Poor you, can’t find anyone who wants to pay for that ass. Seems like a goddamn shame to me, that shit is _choice_."

A choked sound comes out the kid’s throat. Tony relishes that kind of reaction. Yeah, he’s new at this. If he was a pro he would have rolled with it, dished Tony’s snark up right back to him. But being mouthy is also taking a risk, for both of them. The fingers come out and the ass moves forward. When he climbs on top of Tony, the kid does manage to say, “You talk too much.” One hand, the clean one, the one that hadn’t just been in him, slick with lube and sweat, flies up to catch on to the railing above the sleeping shelf. It’s already been established that he’s the taller of the two; Tony’s genetic hand is bullshit, but he makes up for it in swagger.

“Get over here,” Tony says, "I'm on a deadline." He adjusts himself against the shelf so that he’s flat on his back, and uses both hands to move his erection upwards. It curves tight against his belly, so he has to apply some pressure to move it from horizontal to vertical, all the better to be straddled. The guy ducks, adjusting the brim of his cap so it sits better on his head. He clambers in, huge body hunched up tight to fit, and once they’re settled into the cramped space, as close and uncomfortable as you can get - twelve square feet leaves little in the way of wiggle room - Tony starts up again.

“Come on,” he murmurs, as his dick skitters across bare flesh, leaving streaks of lube in its wake. “Climb on up and take a ride, why don’t you, that’s…fuck, what?” and -- oh, all at once he’s in there. And it's hot. Tight, so tight it practically brings tears to Tony’s eyes. He bucks up once, and the man squeals and Tony squeezes himself hard because seriously, _virgin_ fucking tight here, and the kid is sinking down so slowly that he can feel the red hat of latex pull taut around him. He can count on one hand the number of times he’s been harder, and all of those involved drugs. As he slips down, Tony provides encouragement, “yeah, little more, there you fucking go. Take it, baby, just like that, yes.”  

With his hands he cups both ass cheeks and presses them together. It’s the best torture imaginable, being clenched once from the inside, and again on the upstroke. Every inch of the slow drag of muscle and skin until the kid’s right up on him. Jesus. Tony is balls-deep in mint hooker ass, and goddamn it’s good.

He glances down at the other man’s cock, which has softened a little from the pain. Is it awful that Tony kinda doesn’t care? Yeah, he thinks, as the man braces himself with a hand on the ceiling and a tiny, sexy, tip of his hips, yeah it’s awful. And he doesn’t care. His brain's in whiteout mode for sure. 

“Any chance of you moving?” His voice sounds strangled even to his own ears, but the tone’s light. “Because I have to tell you, kid, you’re heavier than you look.” The man swivels his hips again, describing a more robust circle. Around and around until he gasps out a surprised sound.

“Found something you like?” Tony asks, and hey, cool, he can work with this. Now the situation is even better. Is he the first to tear this kid up? Even if it’s only play - and damn if it feels like anything but - then it’s still pretty goddamned hot. “Go on, baby, fuck yourself. It’s been a long day, I’m gonna lie here, and you can do the work. Good? Yeah, good. That’s so fucking good. Jesus.”

The circles reverse, grow wider, then tighter, and then, holy _fuck_ , the kid starts working him up and down like a stripper pole. His muscles contract in the dim light as he rides Tony hard, and Tony’s hardly ever one to lie down and take it, but right now he’s mesmerized and pinned in place. Ass in the mirror, bouncing beautifully in his eyeline. A face obscured by the shadow of a hat, only a pair of puffy lips visible as the man bites down on the shocked noises he keeps making, as if they’re all foreign to him. Like he's completely startled every time Tony hits a spot inside. 

Between their bodies, the man’s cock is at last a heavy weight leaving streaks of wetness between them. He’s going to have to change out his shirt.

He skims a hand up the taut belly clenching in his eyeline, traces light fingers over the cursive script painting the other man's abdomen. "What does this say?" he wonders aloud, but his answer is only a gasp as Tony shifts his hips to meet his thrusts. “Ah,” he breathes out, "ohmygod.” He bangs a hand on the ceiling. The echo of flesh against metal reverberates through the compartment. 

Tony’s feeling pretty good now. He’s going to blow soon, and it makes him feel benevolent, charitable. “Come on, kid,” he encourages, “bounce a little bit, there you go.” And then, slaps and moans later, when it’s inevitable, he says, “Come on my cock, want to see it, fucking do it." Tony scrapes his nails along his sweaty flank and the kid shudders. He runs a hand over his bouncing dick and then, with a full body contraction, the kid lets out a wet strangled sound of pain, and, he decides, of pleasure. Tony has enough presence of mind to grab his own shirt and yank it up out of the way before it gets any more messed up.

Above him, seriously, it sounds like this kid has two sure fingered hands locked tight around his throat. Looks that way, too, with the way his eyes have gone all fluttery and heavy-lidded, barely visible underneath his hat. “You got it,” Tony encourages with a tiny piston of his own hips, “go on, baby, move that ass.” He’s trying to hold out a second longer to watch, but fuck if the sweet clench of this stranger isn’t undoing all his reserves, which were, admittedly, pretty depleted to begin with.

“Oh fuck,” the kid says, as his orgasm hits him like a ten-tonner, “fuck fuck _fuck_.” Tony feels a gasp escape his own lips, seriously, he’s got forty seconds max before he nuts out. With a shove he says, “Get down, fuck, hurry up man,” and the kid, his own dick still jerking with aftershocks, winces as Tony drags him to the ground. “Hold still,” he says, nearly tearing the condom in his haste to take it off. It lands on the shelf beside him, a deflated red balloon.

Now that he’s bare, skin against skin, it’s fucking on. Tony pulls great gasps of air in through his lungs, the hand not jerking himself raw hanging on to the support bar for dear life. His orgasm hits him sidelong; the light’s too dim to see where his load lands, but a yelp says at least some of it went facial. “Fuck yes,” Tony groans, body gone tense with it even as his brain blanks out. “That is _it_ , sugar, good fucking work.”

A rustle beneath him. Two bucks says the guy’s about to stand up, and, “No, no,” Tony says, “hang on a second, baby.” He reaches out to his left to flick on the light, and fuck but that’s a sight. Naked, panting, and scrabbling for his clothes looks good on him. Tony’s spunk on his face and chest looks even better, glistening clear in the overhead. He touches a thumb to the side of his open lips, as if curious at what he’s found spilled there, and then wrinkles his forehead as Tony fumbles on the floor for his discarded jeans.

Out comes the roll of money, wrapped up in its blue rubber band. His eyes light up at that, and maybe it’s because he’s relaxed from coming that Tony feels a twinge of guilt when comparing their situations. He’s got the road ahead, a job, and a pile of cash to hand. This kid, though. Has he eaten today? Where’s he sleeping? Is that his car in the lot, or is he hoofing it? Jesus, how old is he?

“Here,” he peels off two twenties, and, oh what the hell, adds another. They’re creased down the middle, bent between his fingers as he offers them to the kneeling, panting figure before him. He glowers at Tony, shoots him a look that says he hopes all his tires blow out between here and Death Valley, a look to which he cheerfully pays no mind. Gingerly, he takes the bills from Tony’s outstretched hand and looks around for his own jeans to stash the cash in. They’re both dressed again in a matter of moments, Tony whistling as he pulls on his boots, the kid sullen as he wipes his face with a few brown paper napkins found in yet another pocket.

“I’m starving,” Tony says. His stomach rumbles.  “Is there a Burger King around here?”

The man scrubs at phantom stains on his face. “Nearest drive-through's in Overton.”

Tony turns off the light, and pops the door. The road is long, the night is young. Young-ish, and he tends to hate company, but this kid seems alright. For one thing, he’s cute, and he doesn’t talk much. It’s a good combination.  “You hungry?” he asks, already out and down and landing in the dust. “Come on, I’ll buy you a burger.”

“You don’t have to…” the kid answers, too quick. “I don’t have to do shit,” Tony says, “get in the goddamn cab, I have a run to finish.” The door to the sleeper closes with a thud behind them. Tony hauls himself up into the cab and starts the ignition. The pistol on the seat he moves to his left side. AC/DC starts again, automatic, and Tony figures he’ll give the kid until the chorus before he bails.  

**Author's Note:**

> My tumblr is [here,](http://pitcherplant.tumblr.com/) come say hi!


End file.
